“You are magnificent, Duchess,” he murmured to her in a clipped tone completely at odds with the ardor of his words. “Magnificent and beautiful. Everyone here should grovel before you.”
Isolde shot him a thankful look. Trust her husband to be so absurd . . . and kind. Buoyed, she lifted her chin as they crossed the wide hallway to the main ballroom where Ethan would give his recital.
If either of them looked magnificent, it was Tristan. The close cut of his dark superfine coat showcased the power in his shoulders, and the white line of his collar accented the sharp angle of his jaw and the Mediterranean bronze of his skin. He appeared a tiger on a leash, civilized at the moment but ready to draw blood at the slightest provocation.
Tonight, his expression was pure Kendall—icy, contained, and impassive. Not a trace of her Tristan to be seen. Unlike his lashing anger over his cousin’s behavior, her husband’s mask was a deliberate ruse this evening.
“I know I need to adapt,” he had murmured to her in the carriage, “but I do not know how to be different in these sorts of situations. Not yet. Such change will take time. For tonight,I shall be the Duke of Kendall, but know that I am still your Tristan.”
She had nodded in understanding, and thus far, he had been true to his words—cool, haughty Kendall in tone and manner, but when he spoke to her, his words were pure Tristan.
It had been an unusual day. Fredericks had been unable, as of yet, to locate Mr. Ledger. Hopefully, the man would turn up soon . . . preferably by morning. Isolde knew Tristan found the silence from his former secretary somewhat concerning.
In the meantime, Tristan had enlisted Isolde to help him reply to correspondence. They had sat, side by side, in his study, pens scritching as they wrote. That part of the day had been pleasant.
But Lady Lavinia’s shrill voice making constant demands of the staff and Tristan’s obvious frustration over Ledger’s continued absence had dragged on Isolde’s mood. Not to mention her own annoyance at realizing that Aubrey and Lady Lavinia would be in attendance tonight as well, courtesy of the Duchess of Andover. Tristan had sent them ahead in the town coach with Ethan and Allie, much to Isolde’s relief. Lady Lavinia’s caustic tongue and spiteful barbs were every whit as awful as Isolde remembered.
In short, Isolde could not wait to quit London before luncheon tomorrow, and God willing, go years before seeing Lady Lavinia again.
Tristan stopped just inside the ballroom door, rightfully intuiting that Isolde needed a moment to collect her bearings. For easily the hundredth time today, she felt a surge of affection for her husband.
She took in another slow, steadying breath . . . anything, really, to quell the snakes.
Ye can do this.
A crowd gathered around Queen Victoria and Prince Albert at one end of the room, the tiny queen’s dark head scarcely visible over the hoop skirts of the other ladies. Chairs stood in neat rows facing an impromptu low stage, but guests roamed the room, talking and laughing. The queen stood and, therefore, so would her guests until Her Majesty stated otherwise.
Isolde spotted Allie and Ethan across the room, speaking with Lord Aberdeen, a distant cousin of Ethan’s. Aubrey and Lady Lavinia were chatting with Lord and Lady Melbourne close by.
Isolde was about to suggest that she and Tristan find a quiet spot against one wall when a footman bowed before them.
“Your Graces,” the man said. “Her Majesty wishes to speak with you both.”
Isolde managed to hold back a sigh. Tristan merely nodded his head with terse, Kendall-like precision.
Dutifully, they both followed the man to where Her Majesty held court. Victoria appeared almost comically small beside Prince Albert and the other men hovering around her. Though scarcely five feet tall, she still radiated authority and control. The queen turned her blue eyes their way as they approached. Isolde felt every inch of her own towering height as she looked down at the queen. Did the top of Her Majesty’s head even reach Isolde’s shoulder?
“Kendall.” Her Majesty inclined her head regally, truly the barest hint of a nod.
“Your Majesty.” Tristan bowed and Isolde dropped into a deep curtsy.
Isolde had been presented at Court during her first season, right after Victoria ascended the throne, so she had met the queen once before.
Isolde couldn’t reconcile that she and Victoria were nearly identical in age, both born in 1819. But whereas Victoria ruled anempire and had already borne five children, Isolde had attended university and was scarcely more than a month married, much less in a family way.
Their life experiences were vastly different.
“You are well, Kendall?” Her Majesty studied Tristan’s face, a wee dent between her brows. “We had heard a rumor that you had suffered a deleterious head injury.”
“I am as well as ever, Your Majesty. I suffered no injury.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, the only evidence Isolde could see of his agitation. “I fear that rumor might have its origin with those who harbor ill intent. Many stand to gain from the dukedom if I am declared incapacitated.”
Victoria merely stared at Tristan, expression impassive. “As you say. You do appear hearty enough, I suppose.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I would be more than happy to recite Latin declensions or perform mathematical calculations, if that would help put Your Majesty’s mind at ease as to my intellectual fitness.”
Tristan delivered the jest in such dry tones that it took Isolde a moment to register the humor. She bit her lip, barely stopping a startled, nervous giggle from escaping.
“We do not find your cheek amusing, Kendall,” Victoria snapped.
